


Her Unassuming State of Undress

by TheWriterChaotic



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Apodyopis, Custom Hawke (Dragon Age), F/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29300748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWriterChaotic/pseuds/TheWriterChaotic
Summary: Varric notices Hawke, then henoticesHawke.The other side ofOne Degree to the Left.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Varric Tethras
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8
Collections: Hightown Funk 2020





	Her Unassuming State of Undress

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fortheloveofhawke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortheloveofhawke/gifts).



> While there is no order for the stories, it may be appreciated more if you read [One Degree to the Left](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29299659) first.
> 
> The prompt for this one was the word 'apodyopis', which is "the act of mentally undressing someone". I would say it practically wrote itself, but then I'd be _lying_ lol Varric can be so difficult about his own feelings.
> 
> This is written with fortheloveofhawke's custom Hawke, Niamh (Nee-ehv), who you may have seen in her longfic [Just the Faintest Touch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721033).
> 
> Like the first fic, the playlist mentioned - [Neep.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1LZFzGyDiaAtofFHaxCUTv?si=5iYhs7qoQgeQS6DSnbzSPw) \- was listened to while writing both. I intended to have two playlists, but I think it works well (and differently!) for each piece.

It is always easy to spin a tale around Hawke, but tonight is turning out to be special. It is turning into one of those rare nights, when a group of young, malleable, _pleasant_ folk approach Varric looking for stories about the Ferelden Refugee, the one who has been making her name known in blood and laughter (their words, not his). They appear eager for tales, though they also seem to be under the impression that his table is a place to set all of their pints. But, seeing as he is already downstairs -and they were buying -he decides to settle into his corner and let the storytelling begin. Hawke is bound to show up sometime that night, so if they are so fortunate, he tells them, they might be able to glimpse this famed rogue themselves.

He hasn't gone very far into his spiel when it becomes clear that his tales are garnering more interest than he anticipated. Another group of people -noblemen, going by their too clean clothing and blatant show of jewelry -show up in an air of perfume and already-imbibed sweet wine. The weather has started improving, and it is easy to see that people are enjoying it, with jackets removed and sleeves pulled up. Varric is fine in his usual kit; the season is still winter, and he has become accustomed to wearing his duster in even warmer temperatures.

The weather also gives people looser mouths and hands, he notices as he regales the now even larger group with a tale about clearing out the Invisible Sisters in Hightown. More than a few in the crowd are silently flirting, eyes flickering and fingers brushing.

"Was Winger as terrible as they say?" a woman asks him, her eyes wide. Varric hums in consideration, lifting his eyebrows. Playing the role. In reality, Hawke had the leader down before the rest of the gang, but that didn't make an interesting story. He leans forward, his tone confidential, and he feels a quick thrum of excitement when his listeners also draw themselves in.

"Hmm, she was pretty deadly with a bow. If it wasn't Hawke fighting her, it could have been a different fight," Varric says, closing it out with a shrug and smirk. His audience murmurs and giggles amongst themselves, and Varric counts it as another successful story told. He takes a sip of his pint and glances over to the bar. Isabela had been pacing earlier, and he wonders if her contact came through for her.

For a moment, Varric doesn't recognize the woman talking to Isabela. From behind, wearing a sleeveless cotton shirt, Niamh Hawke could have been another Lowtown resident. It isn't often that he misses her when he is already downstairs. It isn't often that he sees her uncovered in any way, either. She must be affected by the weather like most of the people in the bar, changing into something more... breathable.

Varric takes pride in appearing unaffected by what he notices while talking. Hawke has turned to him for enough bullshitting over the years that the only move his expression makes is a slight widening of his eyes and nothing else in reaction to seeing her outside of her typical gear, wearing a shirt that is worn enough to let a little light through it, revealing the shape of her underneath it. Where did she dig _that_ up?

"How deadly _is_ this woman?" a man asks, interrupting his thoughts. Varric takes a good look at the patron and decides that there is more awe than incredulity in his tone. He smiles and settles back in his chair a little.

"I can't attest to _precisely_ as deadly, having not been on the wrong end of her dagger," Varric says, to the easy hilarity of his audience, "but watching from a distance, I'd say very."

"Have you ever seen her..."

As he weaves another story -the last one, he promises himself -he takes another glance towards Hawke and Isabela.

Seeing Isabela embracing anyone is not as common a sight as one may think, but seeing Hawke fully entertain her is rarer still. He watches as Isabela looks straight at him over Hawke's shoulder, _winks_ , then moves her hand under Hawke's shirt, lifting it.

He knows that Isabela is teasing, finding the novelty of the change of shirt entertaining in a variety of ways, but he finds himself unsure what she expects from him with that look. Maybe intrigue; Isabela does enjoy writing her friend fiction. He raises an eyebrow at her, but she is quickly distracted back to Hawke.

It's for the best; Hawke has lifted her arms to hold Isabela in place, and the motion of her body shifts the shirt, lifting it higher. Even from his distance, Varric can see the smooth, warm skin of Hawke's waist, the line of her spine outlined in gold by the candles on a nearby table.

He finds himself more distracted than he expected to be in the moment. He glances at a few of the dozen faces in front of him and decides to entertain them with a story about an encounter they had on the Wounded Coast with a squadron of Tal-Vashoth, all while looking for a flower. He manages to keep his audience's attention, but his own is shot. With Hawke's shoulders already bare, her collar loose and waist exposed, Varric inevitably has a flurry of thoughts. Of 'what if' thoughts, the best and worst of imaginings.

_What if she had been lifting her arms to shrug that shirt off? What if the shirt dropped, revealing the strong lines of her back, her hair barely touching the tops of her shoulders? What if she turned her head this way to see if he noticed?_

Would the scene be as enticing as it is now, with her unaware of how she looked in the shirt? He watches long enough to see Hawke throw her head back and laugh, which draws a few gazes away from him. Many of them linger, and Varric understands; Niamh Hawke is magnetic. With Isabela next to her, they are formidable against the soft, drunk minds of his audience. One man audibly gasps, and Varric notes it to himself, to let Hawke know that she stole _actual_ breath from people.

When Isabela moves, dropping Hawke's shirt back down - _Am I grateful or disappointed?_ he wonders – Varric manages to wrangle his audience back in to finish his story. As he finishes with them finally finding the flower, a slurred voice pipes up.

"So, the Harlot's Blush must be pink, right? Kind of like, you know," a young, hiccuping patron asks him, pointing into the lap of one of the females nearby. As Varric looks away for a moment -mouth a little tight, trying not to laugh too much as the idiot nearly gets his finger broken -and his eyes catch on Hawke, who is now looking at him.

There is a half-moment, barely there, where Varric wonders if she knows, if Hawke can pick his gaze out of a crowd as well as he can hers. She cocks her head and tips up her chin, noticing his glance, and the moment passes. He finds himself winking in reaction to her acknowledging him. She is scanning the group around him, face passive, save for a slight tightening of her mouth as she peers at the nobles still in his orbit; she's going to want to play a game, he can tell. Fresh blood and all.

"It's blue, actually," Varric says, turning back to the audience. He keeps his amusement a little muted in case there's any escalation. The young man is quickly escorted away by his friends, who are making short bows and muttered apologies to the woman clearly debating whether or not she wants to start a fight, but it looks like he doesn’t have to worry. She relents with the seemingly genuine apologies, and Varric finds his gaze drawing back to Hawke, shaking his head a little at the scene.

The young man's absence gives a perfect view of Hawke sauntering towards him, which has him realizing two things. One: she is in a good mood, which makes her even _more_ charismatic than she already is, and therefore likely to draw in new players to shake. Two: the shirt is not a tunic like he had thought when he saw her at a distance at the bar. It is a well-worn button-down shirt, and his eyes drop from her bare neck to the shiny, half-popped button that isn't sure it wants to stick around.

Luckily, people are starting to get up and move around the Hanged Man, which has them turning towards her and taking her attention away from him. He hears her mention Wicked Grace to a few of the ones that stagger upon realizing that the badass woman from the stories they had heard is standing next to them. Many of them agree to play with her, unaware of what they truly agree to. Varric smiles to himself and follows them to a new table.

-

It takes Varric and Hawke only an hour or so before the two of them are making bank on the group who decided to play with them. The first few rounds sorted out the ones familiar enough with Wicked Grace to bow out early, but the rest didn't, and now the few to remain look between him and Hawke, a little bewildered, but still starstruck enough to play one last round, to their detriment.

Varric sighs and shakes his head, giving them the 'I-told-you-so' spiel that he has given many a person after they have hopelessly lost against the two of them. Hawke casually stretches her arm behind him, and Varric watches as the group of men take in the power that Hawke exudes. It is even more so tonight; with her arms and shoulders out, the muscles built from fighting are the focus, followed quickly by the soft sensuality of her bare neck, the curve of her jaw. Who needs conventional beauty when someone this fierce is on display?

The nobles are already up and gone by the time he realizes that he had _spaced out_ while sweet-talking the nobles. He looks over in time to see Isabela curling around his chair to give him a fresh pint as well as a set of raised eyebrows and a growing smirk.

"Distracted, are you?" she asks him in a low murmur, clearly holding back from saying anything else. She is already moving to sit on the other side of Hawke before he can respond. Varric only has a second to mildly worry about it before he is pulled into talking to Fenris when he takes his seat across from them on the bench. Hawke's fist is a gentle bump against the fabric of his duster, and he takes a deep drink of his pint to settle himself.

_There's something in the air,_ he thinks to himself as he spots Merrill giving him a wave over Isabela's head. He smiles at her and gives her a little wave back. _It's the weather and the horny humans and the revealed skin. Get it together._

He feels a little kick of Hawke's boot against his while she flirts with Fenris, but he barely feels it. She slouches back as she shuffles, her eyes on the elf in front of her. He wants to look at her -he always wants to look at her -but Varric finds himself unable to do so without a second commentary running underneath his intended one. He lets his gaze flick between Fenris and the bar scene around him, settling himself back into a more appropriate mindset. He grabs his cards when she deals them out and considers his hand, calming down and settling back into his general public persona.

There is a part of him that knows that Hawke probably wouldn't care if he looked at her that way. He respects her and their friendship too much to let attraction get in the way, and he likes to think that she knows him well enough now to know that he wouldn't damage that. Having her in this way -someone he could trust, who trusts him -is more than enough.

There is _another_ part -a smaller, usually easy to quiet part -that suggests that maybe the attraction is mutual, that they both might want to same thing from each other. Maybe their whole relationship could be better if it was out in the open. It would be so _good_ , and it _could_ be, if they talked about it.

That's usually when that part of him is smothered into the void, but it is quickly revived tonight when Varric glances over to Hawke, who absentmindedly plucks the front of her shirt up. In her slouch, her chest is a little past Varric's shoulder line, and he is in the perfect position to unwittingly find out that she has absolutely _nothing_ underneath it, the motion giving him a barely shadowed view down to her waistband. She isn't flashing him -she is slouched, light blocked a little by the height of the table-but having this small piece of knowledge about her pulls the air out of him.

Hawke turns rolls her head to look at Isabela -likely to get her to start the round -and it gives Varric enough time to notice that the worn, shiny wooden button is still holding strong before ripping his gaze back to his hand. A thought filters through him.

_The button won't give in. You would need to do the honors._

Isabela must be teaching Merrill how to play again; Hawke starts the bet and drops a sizable amount of money into the betting pool. It's coppers in comparison to their haul tonight, but it's a high bet to start with Fenris of all people. He can't help but make a comment on it, a smirk forming on cue. She looks at him, and the game continues, with Isabela helping to ensure that Daisy doesn't bet her little trinkets again. The moment cools him down, and he let's himself settle, planning his hand out.

The game gets all the way to him, and Hawke is still looking at him silently. He puts down a card and looks at her. He has a brief moment to look into her eyes -warm brown, glinting nearly red in the light and assessing -before she shrugs. In the light of the bar, Varric can clearly see her brown skin flushing, starting at the center of her chest -nearly revealed by that damn button -and climbing up her throat. He can't look away from it.

_He put that there._

Varric is helpless in the face of this. His mouth is suddenly dry, and another round of 'what if' rolls through him.

_What if they were alone, sitting at the table in his room? He could kneel down in front of her, fitting into the space she makes for him. Maybe she pulled him in, drawn in by a long leg, a slow smirk, a loose button._

_What if that flush was from him being there, his chest held firm by the strength of her legs wrapped around him? Maybe it would be due to his hands sliding over her thighs, cradling her hips, with his fingers dipping into her waistband and pulling her even closer._

He hears Hawke finally respond to his 'subtle' remark, but it sounds so far away and yet so close.

_"I can be subtle," she says as she smirks and moves one of his hands to that half-done button._

He chuckles at her, shakes his head, and mentally throws the whole fantasy in a box and into the sea. It doesn't even sink, floating gently and present in his mind, refusing to let go.

_Would she still be smirking as he releases each button fully from their positions, parting the fabric to expose her fully to his gaze?_

_Would she flush if he started from the last button, his hands dragging her shirt up as he slides his hands up her waist? How far would the flush go if he pressed his mouth and jaw over the soft skin below her navel?_

"As subtle as a charging Qunari, as we all have seen," Varric says, thinking of one of many occurrences when he has witnessed her _actually_ charging a Qunari. He finds his balance again when their friends agree with him with an enthusiasm too well-deserved. Hawke kicks his foot and succeeds in startling him, though he doesn't think she realizes it. He sits up and glares at her, but it's halfhearted at best. His skin is sensitive under his clothes. He hates his gloves. His boots, and the pressure she is keeping up against him, are the only things grounding him in the moment.

At least, until she decides to look right at him with a tease and says,

"The charge is not where I'm subtle."

She is responding to all of them. _She is telling him specifically._ Varric isn't so sure anymore, but that doesn't stop his carefully packed box from breaking open, returning to his mental shore with a vengeance. With that sly look and still slouched position, Varric was falling right back into that fantasy.

_What if she looked at you like that while still on your knees, directing you with a slight tilt of her hips?_

_Is that subtle enough for you?_

Varric keeps his eyes on her until he can't anymore. He hums in an attempt to clear his throat and turns his head to take a sip of his pint. He needs to slow down his drinking for the night, he realizes. It's one thing to think these things, but the night is still young, and Hawke will still be here, wearing that shirt. He doesn't need alcohol to loosen his lips tonight.

Everyone gets back to the game -is anyone really out other than himself? -when Merrill drops the Angel of Death on them and Hawke wins the pool in a group of bad hands. She is relaxed and competitively vindicated when she taunts him, and it is in this moment that Varric realizes that Hawke has been tense the entire time they have been playing. She isn't doing herself any favors with how she sits, but Varric can't help but consider that she _has_ noticed him looking tonight.

"Who's subtle now?" she taunts, and Varric can't help shaking his head at her, can't help falling back into the groove of things. Her smugness pulls him right into their typical banter, and he directs his attention to Isabela, teasing about her notoriety of blatant cheating. It may have been another bad move on his part.

Isabela, who has been aware that something has been going on with him from the very beginning, quips in her familiar raunchy way and runs her fingers along Hawke's waistband, hidden under her shirt. He catches himself looking and takes a distracted sip from his drink, keeping his eyes away from Isabela's face and focusing instead on her hands as she grabs the cards and shuffles for the next round.

He feels Hawke's attention on him again, and now he wonders if the attention on _her_ has been making her uncomfortable. He doesn't remember if she was like that when they first started playing with the nobles, or if it came on gradually. He feels her hooking her boot around his, feels her purposefully move it. He gives himself another moment to gather himself, then looks back at her.

It almost feels like a test, like she is waiting for him to do something. She is intense on most days, but today she feels more so; she feels charged. Varric doesn't know what to do with that, so he lets himself bask in her attention and good company, watching the way her expression changes minutely.

_Maybe she wouldn't be smirking at all. Maybe she would be looking at him just like this, watching to see what he would do now that he has her._

She breaks the moment with a smirk and pats his shoulder, goading him for the next round. It feels a little forced, but she seems more comfortable now. He finds himself responding automatically -terribly, he really is _off_ tonight – and attempting once more to get himself back to the place he was in when entertaining the patrons earlier in the night, free from distractions.

-

The next few rounds are a wash: Varric cannot get himself into the mentality of Wicked Grace long enough to truly enjoy it. He wins one round, which feels pretty good when Fenris throws down his hand, but it's a fleeting victory. As they play, Varric finds himself folding more often than not, if only to let himself watch how Merrill has improved, or how Fenris' tells have become a little less obvious the longer he plays. He's pretty sure the elf successfully draws two cards without Isabela seeing, but he loses focus when Hawke's hand presses against his shoulder.

"Done already?" Hawke asks him. He knows that she means Wicked Grace, or maybe she noticed that he hasn't been drinking, that he hasn't participated in much of the conversations at the table. Either way, he gives her a look that is only half-show; he had finally managed to cool himself down this round, to re-direct his thoughts away from Hawke enough to get back on some sort of appropriate track. It feels inevitable to him now. He hears her asking a different question about a different game, one she doesn't know she's playing.

_Giving up already?_

There are candles everywhere in the Hanged Man at this time of night, in lanterns and on most of the tables. In some areas, people are brightly lit by high flames; others are nearly gutted, putting the shady people nearby in shadow. Where they sit, Hawke is lit partially from behind and the side, where their own group of candles melt along the surface of the table. Her face is in near shadow when she looks at him, but her profile is illuminated once she turns back towards the table, her back curved as she examines her hand.

She looks a little tense, her shoulders hunched and elbows on the table. She looks ready to fight, and Varric finds himself scanning the room, then their friends to see if anyone else noticed this about her. When it becomes apparent that there are no threats -none that he could see -and none of their friends are reacting to her, Varric tries to lay off, though a part of him wonders if it's _because_ of him. He's in an odd mood, and she is more sensitive to his moods than Isabela.

Hawke discards and rolls herself back down, slouching low against her chair with a sigh. Her legs are nearly completely under the table, and she's pulling her shirt again as if fanning herself, her hair flying away from her face. The movement draws his attention, the nimble way she grabs the fabric right below that button, unwittingly keeping it in place.

_Talk to her. Try to get back into your usual banter._

"I recognize that shirt," is the phrase that comes out of his mouth, and it is at that moment that Varric decides to not even bother trying anymore. He is off tonight. He clearly cannot get his mind away from seeing Niamh in that shirt, seeing himself taking it off of her. _Fuck it, let it happen._

Hawke looks at him then, a lazy turn of her head, eyes slow to follow.

"You might have been with me when I found it. Unless... you think it's yours?" Hawke muses. She is pulling the shirt further away for further inspection, and Varric is about to make a remark about that, when she murmurs, "It's not revealing enough to be yours."

Varric finds himself laughing a little more than he may have under normal circumstances. He laughs because she got him, but he's also laughing because she's wrong; nothing will ever be as revealing to him as the shirt she is currently wearing. The buttons on that thing are practically asking to be undone.

Hawke must see something in him then, and he doesn't realize it until she settles her hand over her torso and she speaks again.

"Did you want it?" she asks him, her tone deceptively calm. For a moment, Varric can hear the patron from earlier asking how deadly Hawke is and Hawke's own voice saying 'the charge is not where I'm subtle' blending into a still void. There is a cold touch to her question that reminds him of the first time she questioned him.

She noticed.

_That's fine, it's Hawke,_ a part of him thinks. _She's teasing, she does that. She does that with all of us._ This thought is enough to help him wrangle his face back into some semblance of control, but it keeps slipping with her waiting for him to answer and _watching_ , aware that she caught him at _something_ , even if she doesn't know precisely what. He debates trying to respond back humorously - 'Don't try to pawn your trash onto me, too' -but he's too far in it, and she knows better.

_This could be it,_ that quiet part of him whispers. _Acknowledge it. Own up to it. She could be serious in her own way._

That thought is unacceptable right now, but not completely. He has to be honest, somehow. He gives her a grin, one that feels a little wretched even to himself.

"Tempting, but I don't think I could wear it as well as you," he says. It's the best he could do to bring levity to the situation and also admit that yes, he was looking at her. She caught him, cue laughter. It doesn't help that on the other side of his mind, he is saying that to her while still on his knees in front of her, pulling her closer to him by the panels of the shirt.

Hawke stares him down a little longer, then scoffs and tries to relax back in the chair, or at least tries to show _him_ that she is relaxing. He has watched her fool her enemies in the same way in fights, so he is not as surprised as he could have been when she looks up at him -lower for her slouching into the chair -and runs her fingers deliberately over the buttons of her shirt, a finger slipping over that blighted button and nearly pulling it out of it precarious position. It stays firm.

"This old thing?" Hawke asks, a lilt in her accent and a smirk playing at her lips. "You're too kind, messere."

It's a deliberate tease, and it lays over the story he has been spinning for himself the entire night. Hawke is not lower than him but above him, leaning in to him as he draws her closer. Varric can see her saying that with that same flush on her face.

_Did you want it?_

It's playful and suddenly a little painful, like being unexpectedly burned. A little too close to reality, and as Hawke looks away from him to consider her hand again, her attention drawn away, Varric realizes that for that moment, he listened to that damned part of him and wished he didn't, especially when Hawke's smirk goes wooden and she folds.

**Author's Note:**

> If I learned anything in this exercise, it is that unreliable narrators are unreliable lol
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
